


But I Swear it Is Sweet

by ObliObla



Series: Obli's Fuckruary 2020 [3]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Fisting, Oral Sex, Post-Season/Series 04, fuckruary2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22548607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla
Summary: Eve has beautiful hands.Maze has seen how Chloe can stop Lucifer with nothing but a touch, and she once thought him weak for that. But now she understands. The things she would do for Eve’s hands on her scare her. The things she would stop herself from doing might be worse. But she feels nothing but pleasure when soft hands touch skin that has never known tenderness, parting her leather in favor of uncalloused fingertips.
Relationships: Eve/Mazikeen (Lucifer TV)
Series: Obli's Fuckruary 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619344
Comments: 6
Kudos: 91





	But I Swear it Is Sweet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redledgers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redledgers/gifts).



> Day 3! Prompt: Hands/Fisting

Eve has beautiful hands.

Maze has seen how Chloe can stop Lucifer with nothing but a touch, and she once thought him weak for that. But now she understands. The things she would do for Eve’s hands on her scare her. The things she would stop herself from doing might be worse. But she feels nothing but pleasure when soft hands touch skin that has never known tenderness, parting her leather in favor of uncalloused fingertips.

Maze is on her back, exposed in ways that have nothing to do with her nakedness, ways she didn’t know existed before. She is impatient, lying on cool sateen, but Eve told her to stay and so she will.

It doesn’t feel like an insult to be ordered by _her._

Eve teases, and Maze growls, rolling her hips against any measure of warmth pressed against her skin. It is weakness to need this, to need anything, but she can’t bring herself to regret cutting her heart from her chest and dropping it, bloody and raw, into Eve’s waiting palms.

Instead of crushing it, lacerating it, causing it any harm at all—something Maze had still believed would happen, even after everything—Eve simply pressed it into the soil of a paradise of their own making and watered it with her light.

And oh, what things have grown that Maze thought dead, thought nonexistent. And _oh,_ how sweet that fruit has been, pressed against her teeth.

But Eve is the one who will pluck the apple tonight. Who will find the knowledge of good and evil—of wants and needs and desires—and will use it to unravel the darkness of Maze’s spirit until they both can see the stars.

Eve presses her searching fingertips between Maze’s legs, brushing her hot, needy clit, and Maze bites her lip to hold in her cry. She tastes blood, and it only brings her higher. With deceptive strength, Eve parts Maze’s thighs roughly, perching between them.

“Beautiful,” she breathes, and then she kneels to pray in a way Maze knows she never prayed to God, would never pray to any man.

Everything in Eve seems soft, careful, but there is a roughness in her she hides, and she is not gentle here. Does not nose delicately up the crease of Maze’s hip or press long kisses to her entrance. No, Eve licks at Maze’s cunt like a starving woman, pressing her tongue as deep as it can reach, tugging insistently at clenching muscle.

Her hands flatten on Maze’s waist, encouraging her to grind against her face, and Maze wastes no time in devoting her strength to her efforts, groaning openly in concert with Eve’s muffled moans. Her legs lock behind Eve’s head, and she buries her fingers in thick, dark hair.

Their rhythm is fast and uncontrolled, and Maze wants nothing else. Wants only this for as long as she is able to have it, for as long as she can wrest such joy from nothingness. Maze comes with a shout as her vision blurs, too fast but never fast enough, and she pushes Eve’s face away, falling onto her side.

Eve perks up immediately, her hair an unmanageable tangle, her face wet and shining. She drags her dress over her head almost incidentally and slides her body up Maze—breasts and hips and thighs—as if _she_ were the serpent in the garden. They look at each other for a moment and laugh breathlessly before Eve presses her hot mouth to Maze’s. As her lips and tongue explore, so do her fingers, filling Maze shallowly before thrusting deeper.

Her hands are small, but they feel large like this, three fingers pressed tightly against Maze’s still twitching walls, searching behind the jut of bone. Her knuckles slip against that rough spot inside, and Maze keens, well beyond anything like embarrassment for something that no longer feels like weakness.

Or maybe it _is_ weakness, but she wants it. Wants it more than she wants blood on her teeth, brimstone beneath her fingernails. All the cruel, brilliant beauty of Hell lies here in this bed between Maze’s legs as Eve twists her hand, slips her pinky into Maze’s cunt to join her other fingers. And Maze finally understands what Eve means to do. The knowledge shivers along her nerves as Eve continues to thrust, more and more rapidly. The stretch itches in its slight pain, but Maze welcomes it, welcomes more, spreads her legs as far as she is able even as her thighs shake from the effort of not pulling tight.

“Please,” she begs, shameless, arching her back and rolling her body to entice Eve closer, further, whatever she desires. _“More.”_

And it’s more of a question than she intended, but she doesn’t care, doesn’t care about anything but the way Eve’s thumb brushes her clit on the way to drawing close to her fingers, the way oil cascades down her fist as she starts the process of stretch and release.

The moment slows, and Eve crawls forward to brush hair from Maze’s sweaty forehead. “How are you doing?” she whispers, but when Maze opens her mouth and licks her lips, Eve grinds her fingers in deeper.

Maze gasps, and, “Eve,” is the only word she can find, so she grasps it as Eve gets closer and closer, muttering to herself, “Eve, Eve, _Eve_ …”

The first knuckle of Eve’s thumb presses in, stretching Maze wide enough the hair rises on her arms and gooseflesh is painted over her thighs. She has done this before, of course, this and so much more, but everything is new and fresh as her first breath of ash and brimstone when she was nothing but a squalling infant. Is the young sun she imagines Eve saw from behind the high walls of the garden, bright and enticing, bathing the world in golden light. Is the glow of the nascent universe before either of them were created, when the cosmos didn’t know the glory in darkness.

When the cosmos didn’t know the glory in _this._

Maze reaches for Eve’s breast to center herself as Eve pushes and pushes and _pushes,_ and a wordless stream of praise and cohortation leaves her mouth involuntarily. Dimly, she convinces her fingertips to pinch and massage, her other hand coming up to fit to her own mouth. She bites her palm, trying to control her sounds, trying to control _something,_ but the widest part of Eve’s hand meets where Maze is tightest, and her head slams back into the bed as she pants and cries and moans.

Eve rocks her hand instead of thrusting now, taking her time in a way Maze isn’t used to, and it unbalances her further. The pressure and glide is so sweet, _too_ sweet, and Eve’s eyes are on her face, and Maze can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t _anything._ Maze’s hand falls between her legs desperately to grab Eve’s wrist—to pause her motions or encourage them, she doesn’t know. “Faster. Eve, _faster.”_

Maybe some things still do feel like weakness.

But Eve understands—she always does, has had more of her fair share of uncertainty—and presses a kiss to Maze’s lips, breathing against her mouth, “It’s okay, Maze.”

And then she twists her fingers, thrusts her hand forward, and Maze stops thinking again, but it doesn’t have the edge of fear it had before, is filled with Eve’s lip between her teeth in concentration, with Maze’s hips bucking involuntarily, with the bed shaking beneath them. They grab at each other, grope sweaty skin under hot fingers, and Maze ends up on her hands and knees, Eve arched over her back, working her hand in to the wrist.

With one final push, Maze can feel Eve’s pulse in counterpoint to the thudding of her heart, can feel searching fingertips against rippling muscle, can feel a clever thumb tease her cervix. Her cunt contracts around Eve, and Eve moans with it, her free hand slipping between her own legs.

Maze bucks her hips wildly, hissing out her breaths, breathing in groans, lost to any kind of elegance or grace. But it doesn’t matter. This is perfect in all its imperfection—the pinch of pain, the sheets tearing under her hands, the way her vision grays out and she buries her face into the pillows. She’s so close again, rising fast, but it’s not the fingers in her cunt that drag her over. It’s the slick sounds Eve makes between her own legs as she chases release; it’s the way she chokes on a breath as she brings herself to climax, seeking out her own pleasure, not letting it be denied her.

And Maze is falling, thrown out of Eden for a better paradise, cast from Heaven for a kinder Hell. Here, in their bed, in their _home,_ there is finally a place she truly belongs.

Eve withdraws slowly, retrieving a washcloth from the side of the bed to wipe away the worst of the mess. They collapse together onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs and satisfaction, Maze’s blood still singing everywhere their skin touches. She traces Eve’s spine, thinking of bones and death and trees laden with poison fruit, but then Eve turns over to lie on top of her, pressing their bodies together shoulder to ankle, and she can think only of blood and shadows. Of the heat of a lava flow and the power of a hellbeast. Of Eve, made for another, but more herself than anyone Maze has ever met. She has known servitude, and she has known pain. They both have. But here they are only themselves, are only _for_ themselves. And there is such peace in it it scares her. There’s such freedom in it it terrifies her.

But isn’t that what freedom is?


End file.
